


Baby Steps

by saltyfeathers



Series: Frivolity is the Spice of Life [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Fluff, M/M, sam's hair is the real star here lbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas conspire. Sam's flowing locks are in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Should be writing ~*~serious~*~ stuff. 
> 
> Wrote this instead.

“Okay, Cas, if we’re gonna do this, you keep quiet and follow my lead. Capiche?”

Cas rolls his eyes and nods, if only because Dean won’t let their escapade continue otherwise. He’s been aching to do something, _anything,_ since he showed up at the bunker’s door, dishevelled and generally smelly almost a month ago.

This specific ‘seriously overdue undercover mission’, as Dean had put it, is not quite what Cas had in mind, but he figures, in a startling display of character, _baby steps_. They’ll get in, get out, and it’ll be another check mark that most definitely won’t overshadow any of the black marks in his cosmic karma (and not that he would expect them to, of course) that will lead to both him and Dean being in a place where they can come together again, as allies and friends.

Cutting off Sam’s hair in the middle of the night after Dean drugged his supper with cough syrup seems to be a (baby) step in the right direction, at least.

As for his friendship with Sam, well, Cas will just have to hope Sam either has a short memory or his forgiveness can be bought off with some sort of ancient text that’s mostly impossible to procure. (And now that he’s unerringly human, he figures it _will_ be impossible to procure, but that’s beside the point. It’s the thought that counts, right? That’s the expression humans use?)

Maybe Cas will get Sam a wig once the ordeal is over. It would give Sam the apparent scalp coverage he seems to desire, and Dean the opportunity to mock him for it. Balance will be restored to the Winchester world, and maybe then Castiel will be able to find a place on that scale where he doesn’t tip it too off kilter.

Dean shoots Cas a meaningful look before snapping the scissors in his hand with a wispy _snip_. It’s funny, Cas thinks, that a sharp implement similar to that cut out his grace, and yet now they’re going to use one for familial hijinks. It’s either achingly endearing and human, or pathetic and hilariously mundane. Cas decides to go with the former, if only because the last word he would use to describe the Winchesters is ‘mundane’.

“Ready to go?” Dean asks, mischief dancing across the planes of his face in a way Cas hasn’t seen in a very, _very_ long time (if ever).

Cas swallows, something pulling at him in a way that’s incredibly insistent and painfully familiar, even though he’s never felt it this _concentrated_ before. It’s a dense, pleasant warmth, molten in his core, and it informs him testily, curtly, that _this is what family is, Castiel. It’s inclusion without caveats._

It’s not like Dean has forgiven him, but Cas has the sudden, uncomfortable notion that maybe Dean doesn’t have to forgive him. After all, forgiving him isn’t going to change the mistakes he made. It’s not going to take back what he’s done, and whether Dean forgives him or not, it’s not going to change how sorry he is.

So maybe they can exist in a space where Dean hasn’t forgiven him, but they can still conspire to cut Sam’s hair while he sleeps.

Baby steps, after all.

He’s broken out of his reverie by Dean clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Okay, Cas, here’s the deal. If we wake the giant, abort mission. Don’t be a hero, okay? Just get the hell out of there. I’ve seen Sam take out dudes twice your size while still drooling into his pillow.”

Cas nods, and Dean quirks a grin.

“Let’s go, partner.”

They make their way down the shadowy hallway slowly, Dean with the scissors held out in front of him like a weapon, glinting in the moonlight. Cas isn’t sure what, exactly, Dean expects to use the scissors against, but when he slashes out at a particularly menacing shadow, Cas realizes; it’s a game. Dean is playing make believe, and the shadows are the monsters.

He figures it’s better than fighting real monsters, so he remains silent, and watches with a quiet awe, that Dean can still find pleasure in such small things after all he’s been through. It makes Cas think of how Dean puffs up with pride when he cooks the perfect hamburger, or how animated he gets when talking about various television shows.

For a lot of warriors, fighting to save the world distances them from it. For Dean, it seems to have brought him closer to it. Made him appreciate the good times even more. Cas thinks he agrees, because he is a small thing, and Dean seems to take pleasure in his company (more often than not, these days, which is a baby step all its own). They have good times.

Sam’s door is open just a crack, a ploy carried out by Dean earlier in the evening, when he was sure Sam was in his room for the night. According to Dean, he burst in on Sam to make sure, as he put it, “that you weren’t reading print smaller than 9, because that shit hurts your eyes,” and Sam, already trying to fall asleep, groggy on cough syrup, told Dean to, “get the hell out before I carve size 9 boot prints onto your face,” to which Dean cheerfully responded with some sort of good night wish, and didn’t bother to close the door all the way.

And thus, entrance.

Dean, ever thinking ahead, also managed to spray the hinges on Sam’s door so they wouldn’t squeak. By the time Cas had heard up to this point in the plan, he wondered aloud that perhaps Dean’s foresight would be put to better use in a, uh, _healthier_ outlet, such as event planning or architecture? To his very great surprise, Dean’s face had just turned quite red, and he muttered a lot before changing the subject. Cas had gone along with the deflection, but filed it away carefully for future considering. He knows Dean likes building things.

Dean turns around with a finger to his lips, and Cas can’t help but roll his eyes again.

“I’m aware of what silence entails, Dean,” Cas hisses, and Dean is shaking his head furiously, eyes wide, mouthing _shutupshtupshutup_ and there’s a snort from the bedroom, and Dean and Cas both freeze, staring at each other with something akin to horror. Apparently, one hasn’t known fear until they’ve been caught, scissor-handed, at Sam’s bedside. Dean’s told him some extremely frightening stories.

After they’ve waited out Sam’s snuffling, and his breathing evens out again, Dean turns accusing eyes onto Cas. He fits a palm to the back of Cas’ neck, yanking him forward so that he can speak in quiet, hot bursts of breaths against Cas’ ear.

“Yeah, not actually sure you are, dude,” he mutters, “keep tongue in mouth for the foreseeable future,” he releases Cas, and Cas has to grudgingly admit that Dean _is_ the expert at this, after all. He nods, and Dean seems satisfied.

Dean pushes open the door, and even though both he and Cas know that the hinges are oiled, he visibly winces for some reason. Cas follows him, trying to avoid the parts of the floor that Dean informed him were squeaky.

Sam is, without doubt, a monolith. He displaces the bedsheets around him, making it extraordinarily easy for Dean to figure out which side will provide the most ample cutting angle. Cas follows him up the side of the bed that’s furthest from the door, and Dean shoots him a look that Cas assumes is supposed to be determination- even though Dean looks milk-white- he takes a deep breath, and leans over Sam, scissors extended.

Everything is held in suspension for a moment, Sam deep in REM sleep, Dean bending over with the scissors, and Cas hovering at Dean’s back, whether for lookout duty or just moral support, Cas never asked and Dean never explained.

Dean doesn’t seem to be moving, whether out of fear of retribution from Sam, or because he’s having second thoughts for another reason, but Cas decides that any hesitation is too much, and gently reaches around Dean to help speed up the process.

Which, of course, turns out to be a disastrous idea.

As soon as Cas’ palm comes to rest on Dean’s forearm, many things happen at once. Dean hisses in a breath, and then claps a palm over his mouth with an agonizingly loud slapping sound. Sam snorts, rolls over, and is blinking blearily in one moment, and on his feet in the next, ready to fight off the possible threat. Dean is shouting something that sounds like, “Uncle, uncle, fuck!” and then there’s the sounds of the scuffle, Cas sees the scissors flash dangerously in the shaft of moonlight peeking through the curtains, and then Dean is yelling, “ _Abort mission! Abort mission! Fubar! FUBAR!”_ And then there’s the soft thump of scissors hitting the carpet, Cas sees them get kicked under the bed, and Dean is grabbing him by the sleeve and practically sprinting out of the room.

“Really, Cas?” he hears Sam shout from behind him, more annoyed than offended. “ _Really_?” Then, louder, and not directed at him, bouncing after them down the hallway, “You’re going to take someone’s eye out with those one day, Dean. And I guarantee your eye is coming out before my hair is coming off.” It’s an ominous threat, if an empty one.

They end up in a random storage closet, Castiel assumes, just in case Sam decides to forego sleep and come looking for them.

Dean is laughing, one hand over his face, the other bracing himself on his thigh.

“Ah, fuck,” he says, “Ah, well. Part of the fun is in the chase, am I right?” he looks to Cas imploringly, who just nods along.

“Of course.”

“Ahhhh,” Dean straightens up, stretches out, “I hope you’re ready, Cas.”

Cas raises an eyebrow, a silent, _ready for what_?

Dean puts a hand on his shoulder again, and eyes him significantly, as if what he’s about to say carries a hefty weight along with it.

“We just instigated a Winchester prank war, Cas. This is serious business, and I’m going to need you in on this one hundred percent. Can you give me one hundred percent?”

Cas blinks dumbly for a moment.

“You call it a _Winchester_ prank war?” he asks pointedly- a point which Dean seems to miss entirely when he shrugs.

“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t call it baby’s first prank war, would we? We _are_ Winchesters, after all.”

_We are Winchesters_.

Maybe not baby’s first prank war, but perhaps baby’s first step.

Cas hears the smile in his voice as he says, “Yes, Dean. I’m ready.”


End file.
